


friday night, dinner and a movie

by deadlybride



Series: zmediaoutlet [25]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Season/Series 13, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-28 18:30:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17792513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: Sam and Dean don't really do Hallmark.





	friday night, dinner and a movie

**Author's Note:**

> prompted by an anon who wanted to know what Sam and Dean do for Valentine's Day

The thing about Valentine’s Day is it presupposes a stable kind of relationship, which isn’t exactly the kind Sam and Dean have. It presupposes a world of routine where, on a special day picked out of a dreary month, someone can set some time aside and make the person they love (or that they’ve said they love, or that at least they’re trying to love, or that they just want sex from)—they make that person feel special. Put a little extra effort in. Sometimes it’s more obligation than anything else, because of the social expectation. _What are you doing for Valentine’s Day?_  Sam once got, from Carlos who managed the motel he worked for back in Kermit, and Sam froze but then thought, oh. Oh, of course. He got Amelia a lame chocolate heart from the Buc-ee’s, both of them self-conscious and laughing over the silliness, and she snorted and shared the chocolates with him and then they both got drunk and watched The Bourne Ultimatum and didn’t say another word about it. He’s never been good at this stuff. Even back then, with Jess, it just—that wasn’t _him_. As though there were a single day, a card or gift, that could ever encompass—and then, later, when it counts more, he doesn’t bring it up. That’s not them, either.

Dean likes it, though he likes it for other reasons. Back then, before, it was always an easy hook-up day. He pretended to be a lot more crass than Sam’s sure it really was. Funny that he ever thought Dean could be—uncareful, that way. It’s just not in him. At least, not purposefully. Now, February comes around and restaurants start advertising their Valentine’s specials and heart-shaped pizzas and cocktails full of grenadine and 7-Up for filler and Dean grins, he loves it. The Impala starts to carry a stock of crappy red-and-pink wrapped candies, and Dean is the only person on the planet who actually likes those little candy hearts. Sam gets woken up one February 13th by Dean chucking them at his face, telling him to _get going, squirt, got a case up in Des Moines_  and Sam says back _squirt?_  and Dean grins at him, and Sam gathers up the fallen candies so as not to torture the poor maid and has a handful of _let’s kiss_ , and _love you_ , and _be mine_. Dean likes the 15th even better: discount candy. He eats himself sick on sugar a few times. Sam refuses to clean up the wrappers, but otherwise doesn’t mind.

Winters are hard. They sneak up on Sam, every time, somehow. Once they have the bunker the years don’t exactly get easier but there’s at least—some kind of stability, in a way. Not that both of them aren’t constantly losing all the time, and barely scratching enough back to call it winning. They’re both alive, though, every February. That’s something. 

Dean keeps buying the discount candy. He orders a heart-shaped pizza, once or twice, although he bitches that they don’t offer it in stuffed crust and Sam says, _you don’t even like stuffed crust that much_ , and Dean says _c’mon, Sam, stuff my love pizza, you’re not gonna take the opportunity to say that if you get a chance?_  and doesn’t flinch at all from the look Sam gives him. Incorrigible.

Then comes that one day, that February when Sam spends most of his time worried sick—Jack in the wind, and their mom (their _mom_ ) disappeared away to some other world, and Dean’s been sharptongued half the time and miserable the rest, and they’re both doing their absolute best not to give up hope because hope in those days was about all they had—there comes a day when Sam’s been sleeping at his table in the library more often than in their bed (their bed, now, with their mom away, and why did it take _that_ for them finally to stop pretending)—Dean wakes him up with a hand through his hair and says, not really joking, _I’m gonna beat the shit out of you if you don’t stop working for a day_ , and Sam hears what’s underneath it and grinds his knuckles into his eyes and says, _okay_ , and okay. They’ve been gone—too long already. Sam can take a day.

Dean makes breakfast—or brunch, really, since Sam was passed out until almost eleven. Not his fault, since he fell asleep right at dawn. Fried eggs, toast, ham on the side, and it’s food that isn’t any kind of healthy but Sam wolfs it down while Dean debates the merits of Elizabeth Hurley versus Carmen Elektra. _What is this, 1999?_  Sam says through a full mouth and Dean shushes him and hooks his foot around Sam’s under the table. Dean changes the oil in the Impala. Sam sits in the backseat with the windows open and reads, and listens to Dean mutter under his breath to the car. After a while two greasy fingers push down the top of his book and he huffs, glad it’s just a dollar-store paperback, and there’s Dean, and he crawls into the backseat with Sam and lays his weight right on top and they don’t really both fit back here, not at all, haven’t for years, but Sam makes a bed of himself and Dean kisses him, slow and wet, soft. He rubs the dip of Dean’s lower back and traces the soft curve of his perfect ear, and Dean pulls back after a while and looks him in the eyes, everything full between them. No, Dean’s not uncareful, not by nature.

Dean pulls him out of the backseat and they drive, then, out under the gunmetal grey sky all the way to Wichita, and they catch a four o’clock showing of that horror movie called _Winchester_  that Dean insisted they absolutely had to see—it’s terrible, which Sam could’ve told Dean, but they have a good time with it despite Dean talking through the whole thing—and then they go to a dive for really good beer and really greasy burgers and then afterward, standing out in the frigid evening with their breath fogging in the air, Dean says, _let’s get a motel_ , and Sam follows him then into a room with bad carpet and a king-sized bed with an absurd dip in the middle, and Dean laughs when they both roll right into the center, but he spreads his legs for Sam and gets his hands on Sam’s face and kisses him like he always does—like the world’s about to end, any minute, like apocalypse is right around the corner, and the thing is that they both know that feeling, for real, they’ve been there, and Sam’s blood rushes to his face with how Dean never, ever holds back. He pushes up, eventually, has to, balanced on one elbow with his thumb brushing under Dean’s lips, and Dean’s eyes are heavy in the dim light and they’re both still wearing most of their clothes and there are lines around their eyes, and they’re neither of them _happy_  but they aren’t sad, either, and Dean says, after a while of Sam looking at him, _you okay?_  and Sam says, smiling, _yeah_. Yeah. He’s okay.

That’s February 16th. Not a special day, other than all the ways it is.

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/182814381194/headcanon-time-do-sam-and-dean-celebrate)


End file.
